


Still

by mktellstales



Series: Archived Work: 2013-2015 [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: -But not really, 700 words, Kind of a break-up, M/M, Mj's Stories, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:02:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not even John and Sherlock are immune to the end.</p><p>Just a quick one shot to help me through my writers block.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still

It happened to other couples all the time, had happened to him personally many times over, so why did he think that they were so special? Why had he assumed that their love was so different from everybody else’s?

Because they had been through more; life, death, re-birth, pain, anguish?

Because it felt different; untamed, electric, constricting, intense?

Because he wanted it to be different; real, special, rare, forever?

John Watson had wanted his love with Sherlock Holmes to not only be the last love he would ever need, but the last love that either of them would ever have. He wanted (hoped, thought) that it would endure for the rest of their lives and any lifetimes to come after.

But he felt it. He felt the cold ache of detachment, of shame and of guilt. When John kissed him, Sherlock tensed. When John undid his buttons, Sherlock tried to pull away. John would keep going; sliding Sherlock’s shirt off from his shoulders and nipping gently at the pale skin underneath, holding back the painful realization that it wasn’t the same.  He really shouldn’t have expected it to come to an end any other way; Sherlock always needed more; more of any and everything, not just John.  But he would hold steadfast, because this was the only way he felt he could hold onto Sherlock; keep him from walking away.

So, he would brush his lips across the thin, stretched flesh of Sherlock’s neck; suck a bright purple mark right into the hollow to remind him (for good or bad) that he still belonged to John. He would sweep his tired, calloused hands up and down Sherlock’s sides, over the perfect hill of his arse trying desperately to illicit a moan, a sigh, anything Sherlock would give him.

Sherlock would eventually give in and succumb to the perfect ministrations John had to offer, because Sherlock knew nothing better than the feeling of surrendering himself over to John’s power. Even if it hadn’t been feeling the same, and just why hadn’t it been feeling the same?

Because they had waited too long; couldn’t live up to the idea built inside their heads; inside their hearts?

Because they were too broken; pain from ages ago that never quite healed?

Because they wanted it too much; perfection was always found in the other’s eyes; perfection that likely never really existed.

But he felt it. He could feel the persistent beat of uncertainty, doubt and fear. He couldn’t close his eyes anymore when John kissed him. John’s were still closed; tighter than usual as if he was trying to hold onto some image behind his lids, terrified that it would fall away forever if he were to let go and open. Sherlock took to studying John’s face; his eyes closed when they used to be open, open when they used to be closed. Sherlock wished he could close his and capture whatever it was John was seeing or just let go and get lost in the blissfully quiet world like he used to not so long ago.  He was surprised, because he was so sure that John was the only thing he ever needed.

And so when John would begin to undress him, kiss everywhere but his lips, feel everywhere, Sherlock would fight the feeling of wrong that would creep up through his spine and moan, yell, sometimes let out a scream, and always ended with John’s name on his lips, to reassure John (reassure himself) that it wasn’t over just yet.

Because it wasn’t; it couldn’t be.

John would finally open his eyes and bring them to meet Sherlock’s, and John would take a deep breath, and ask the same question he had found himself asking nearly every time they had finished.

“Do you still want to be here? Be with me?”

And Sherlock would also take a deep breath, spread a sad smile across his face and bring his hands to run through John’s hair. The answer had always come so easily; it still came easily, but it wasn’t the answer that it used to be; wasn’t the breathless, defiant _‘always’_ that Sherlock never had to think twice about.

It was hushed, gloomy, broken.

“Still.”


End file.
